


Hope is Dead on the Ground, and I'm Six Feet Under

by Innocentfighter



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bruce never found Jason, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jason Todd Has Issues, Music, Musical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 22:53:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17068715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innocentfighter/pseuds/Innocentfighter
Summary: Bruce doesn’t adopt Jason. Jason composes songs in his head





	Hope is Dead on the Ground, and I'm Six Feet Under

**Author's Note:**

> Look at the tags yo.  
> Otherwise, hope you all enjoy.

Jason lets the cigarette ash drop to the floor. There’s a small pile there from the ones before this one, he thinks he’s made his way through a pack by now. He should probably stop, give his lungs a break. He shoves the burned down butt into the ashtray, joining the corpses of its brothers. A few seconds pass as he fumbles for a lighter and another cigarette, he lets the smoke fill his lungs in one long drag. They’re tired and ache with the inhalation and he ends up coughing.

_Fuck._ He thinks.

There’s a small melody singing at the back of his head of piano chords. It’d make for a nice ballad someday, mix it with a quiet base and a mellow guitar and just enough drum to give it life. Jason taps out the rhythm against his leg.

_Yeah._ He thinks. _Could be something._

He puts the cigarette between his lips and flicks the accumulating ash to the ground as he reaches for a blank sheet of music and a pen. It’s fitting to be written in red ink. Jason tilts his head and lets the melody ring in his head clearly. The music gathers and unwinds itself into a series of notes. The paper is soon filled with chords and flats and sharps. Notes lay themselves flat into a rendition of the melody that’s been dancing in the back of his head. He’s transcribed it in A minor although he knows he’s been hearing it in E minor this entire time.

It sounds better in A, he thinks, but he makes a note at the top of the paper. Outside of the notes, it’s the only mark on the paper. For once his initial draft has come out perfect. People will find errors he’s sure, a half note sounds better than an eighth note here a delay between the chord repetition and the second verse would break up the monotony. They’re errors anyone will find, not just Jason.

He finds it strange that he’s content with this piece. Jason knows that it should be a masterpiece if he knows the meaning of the second melody playing in his head, a cacophonous rendition of Flight of the Bumblebee on piano. Someone is playing a delayed left hand and is off beat with the right. Two days he’s had it stuck in his head.

It’s been two days since he nearly slipped up and chased one of his sleeping pills with a bottle of vodka. He’s not sure what stopped him them, other than the start of the song that’s now laid bare before him. Every time he looks at it, he can see the minor improvements that can be made, in his mind, he’s making the corrections and adjusting for other instruments. There should be a violin or some string instrument that’s a melodic counterpoint to the rough guitar he’s thinking. He makes that note too, that the violin should start the song and then they can fall into the rock and roll rhythm the song is bouncing to.

Jason pulls the cigarette from between his lips. It’s burned down to the filter, so he lets it rest in the mass grave of its siblings. He repeats the pattern, flicks the lighter three times, one long drag, stuttered breaths out. His lungs still hurt, and he is dizzy from all the smoke hanging around his head. A beat, and then he’s batting the cloud away to look back down at the song.

It plays out smoothly in his head. There’s enough room in his mind from the piano version in front of him that people can make the jump to fill in the voids of the other instruments. His band, at least, would know what he means. They’ve always been good at mapping where he wants to go in a song.

It’s good because they bring it down from the highbrow composing he places before them. They turn his requiems into anthems and his etudes into ballads. The pieces work, the fans love them, and Jason loves them for it. He’s not a master of lyrics, he’s never been good with words but for once he can hear snippets of phrases that play exactly to the tone of the piece.

He aptly names it Red Ink and jots down the phrases where he thinks they should go:

_Cigarette stains on my fingers, ash on the floor._

_Baby,_ _I can’t do this anymore._

_Let me slip away, for a while._

_Vodka and powder on my nightstand, a little help in the morning,_

_Where’s the thrill gone?_

_Hope is dead on the ground and I’m six feet under it._

They aren’t worthy of any awards, they’re rough and true. It’s only when he sets the pen on the table that he realizes what he’s written. Jason drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under the heel of his boot. There’s a decrescendo of Flight of the Bumblebee and his mind is blessedly silent. Trailing beats and sustained notes fade into the din of an empty rehearsal room.

Jason empties the rest of the vodka on his way out. It burns his throat and settles heavily in his stomach. He doesn’t grab anything on his way out, but his phone is in his pocket and so his wallet. For a second he debates grabbing the pills on the table and then he slips them into his pocket.

There’s no destination in his mind. He hears the music of the city, a park guitarist stumbles over a chord and there’s the bass of cars supporting the vocals of conversation and the steady patterns of life become the drum. Jason closes his eyes and pauses, letting the city telling him the song that he needs to write about it. There are some sounds he can’t translate into notes, but he thinks if there’s a release from the instruments and just vocals like an aria. He might get close to the pain no one makes noise about.

He wanders to the bridge. The soliloquy of the city taking shape in his mind. It’s the drums that would be the focus of the song he thinks, a slow two beat repetition. A heart. Becoming the blood is the bass, steady refrains with occasional dissonance. The noise that fills between those would be what the guitar plays, fast but a minor key with a jump to a major key just as the vocals crescendo then fade so that they’re barely heard over vocals.

A duet would work nicely here he thinks.

Jason stops in the middle of the bridge. It’s sometime in the morning, but not early enough for people to be resuming their lives. He climbs over the railing and sits on a beam with his legs dangling above the water. There’s a wave of vertigo that he’s not entirely convinced it was just the vodka’s fault. He thinks about leaning forward and suddenly there’s a hand on his shoulder.

It cuts out the dirge that was building in his mind.

The hand catches his attention, it’s gloved, and he can almost hear the whirring of tech built into it. The glove must cost as much as the last round of royalties from the latest album he got. Not that he has much use for one, gloves would get in the way of his playing.

Somehow, he’s unsurprised to learn that the hand belongs to Batman. He is surprised that Batman would also be hanging out on a bridge in the middle of the night, but Jason supposes that he has to do something in between saving the city from clowns and giant plants. But why wouldn’t he lurk in a cave or something?

“You’re throwing your life away.”

The voice is deep, Jason appreciates it. Trained it would be an incredible baritone asset, but he’s pretty sure that Batman would have no interest in opera.

“How would you know?” Jason asks softly, his throat is still sore from his drinking binge from a couple of days ago.

Of course, chain-smoking for hours probably didn’t save it.

“You’re Jason Todd,” Batman says like it means something.

He supposes it still does, to some people. Not to him anymore, “sure.”

Batman adjusts his grip, it’s less like desperation and more of a warning. Jason leans away from it and the unpleasant memories it arises. The grip loosens and Batman steps away from him. Gives him space. It’s nice.

“You’ve set up three charities,” Batman says.

Jason shrugs, “one for drug abuse, one for domestic abuse, and another for music and mental health support in schools.”

Batman stares at him.

“Isn’t like I practice what I donate to,” Jason snorts.

“You donate almost half of your yearly salary to them,” Batman says, “people are living better because of you.”

“Someone else will donate to them when I’m gone,” Jason replies, the water churns black below.

“And you’re throwing your life away because of that?” Batman asks.

Jason isn’t sure what the point is supposed to be. He looks towards Batman and then spots a boy in bright green and yellow. A new Robin makes sense since Red Robin has just appeared in the city. He can’t help but wondered what that life would be like, directly saving people instead of pretty words and a lot of money. It might eat away at this pit inside of him and get rid of the noise in his head.

“I’ve thrown my life away,” Jason answers, “half the time I’m so deep into a bottle alcohol or otherwise I don’t know who I am.”

“You can get help.”

“That’ll go over so well for me,” Jason says bitterly, “I’m nearly at the end of my career, what will I have then?”

“A legacy,” Batman says, “the people you leave behind will carry on your goals.”

There’s a glance to Robin.

“What does that matter if it’s now or later?” Jason tilts his head.

“Later will leave you a bigger legacy,” Batman answers.

Jason looks away, “maybe.”

Batman moves to physically lift him up from his seated position. It’s startling that Batman can easily maneuver him when Jason can tell he has two inches on the man easily, not the muscle or the training, but he’s still big.

“You’re going to manhandle me away from the water?” Jason tilts his head, “and then what, take me to a place to get help?”  
Batman growls, “you need it.”

“You don’t know me.”

There’s a second where they both stare each other down. He remembers as a kid when he tried to steal tires from this man. They got a burger and Batman turned him away from a life of crime. Jason’s always wondered what his life would have been like if, for whatever reason, Batman had taken him and trained him. He doesn’t think it would have been a happier life, but it might have been more fulfilling.

Maybe he wouldn’t need a line and a bottle to try and seal the void inside of him. No matter how many people he reaches with his charities or music or words, it’s still not _him._ Just like it’s not really whoever Batman really is.

“I know you better than you think,” Batman finally says.

Jason swats the hand away, “then you know I don’t need anyone. Never have.”

He built the band from the ground up. Each song and album placed them closer and closer to the top. Now they have two platinum albums and three gold disks. It’s not too shabby from the Wednesday open mic nights they began with. They did that themselves, together, but Jason’s never really needed them. The band is close, but not brothers and they only get along for the sake of their fans and contracts.

“Please,” Batman says.

Jason moves past him, “as I said. I don’t need anyone. You’ve done your civic duty for the night.

There’s no noise in his head but a soft buzzing anger. It twists into a harsh major key, the solo would be legendary, he thinks. Heavy drums and a throaty base to counterpoint.

He’s got it a third of the way planned when he walks back into his apartment. The jacket he’s wearing gets tossed over the back of the couch, and the bottle of pills tumbles onto the cushions like a soft snare drum.

Jason stares at the pills.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was a little weird for me too. Let me know what you think in the comments below.


End file.
